


All This Time I Never Noticed (All You Ever Had Were Hidden Motives)

by novel_concept26



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-12
Updated: 2011-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-06 15:22:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novel_concept26/pseuds/novel_concept26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the summer between junior and senior year, Rachel Berry finds work at a catering service. Which would be wonderful—if she wasn’t partnered with Cheerios.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All This Time I Never Noticed (All You Ever Had Were Hidden Motives)

Title: All This Time I Never Noticed (All You Ever Had Were Hidden Motives)  
Pairing: Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray, side Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce  
Rating: PG  
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.  
Spoilers: Through S2.  
Summary: During the summer between junior and senior year, Rachel Berry finds work at a catering service. Which would be wonderful—if she wasn’t partnered with Cheerios.  
A/N: Title from Cartel's "Conventional Friend", although...this is not angry like that song is. Written for rachberry's birthday. Happy birthday! :D

It isn’t the kind of idea she would have come up with by herself, but all the same, Rachel loves her summer job. It isn’t a high-profile service (like, for example, skipping town to hop onboard a traveling company doing _Hair_ , which she _would_ have done if her fathers weren’t so uptight about losing track of her the summer before her senior year), but it still fits the business, and she’s proud to be doing it.

After all, acting and waitressing: they practically _belong_ together.

The only flaw in the plan is her catering team—the members of which, for the record, she most certainly did _not_ choose. Because only a self-loathing masochist would opt to work every single weekday of their summer vacation in the company of Brittany Pierce, Santana Lopez, and the head bitch herself: Quinn Fabray.

And Rachel Berry, though a great many fabulous things, is _not_ a self-loathing masochist.

Sure, she might have a few flaws—not the least of which being how pathetically she spent sophomore year mooning after one Jesse St. James, who so obviously did not appreciate her talent or charm—but she really has been working on them. It has taken a long time to get to this point, but Glee is more than a venue for her stunning gifts now; she actually feels as though some of the other kids are her _friends_.

Well. Sort of. Not sleepover-quality, perhaps, but Mercedes sometimes liked to do her hair during practice, and Tina hadn’t flinched and darted away from a conversation even once in the last few weeks of school. It’s certainly progress. When September rolls around, she has high hopes for lunch hours not spent pestering Brad in the choir room.

Until then, however, she is living the dream—or, more accurately, the pre-dream—as defined by the Lima Luxury Catering Service.

And it’s wonderful. _Exactly_ like she’s always anticipated, from the neatly pressed uniforms to the absurdly grouchy clientele. It isn’t a piano bar or an off-Broadway role, but it is beautiful in its own way, and she loves it. Although, she has to admit, it might be a _little_ nicer if not for—

“Berry, seriously? I swear to God, it is like your life goal to stand in my way every _single_ time I need something.”

Santana’s elbow collides with her side, shoving her straight into a table. Just behind her, finger hooked through Santana’s belt loop, Brittany flashes a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smile.

“Hi, Rachel.”

“Good afternoon,” she replies automatically, but they’re already gone. This is a daily routine: Santana flings an insulting barb, Brittany soothes it with her ever-sunny disposition, and they scuttle off, making way for—

“Hello, Quinn,” she adds primly, eyes rooted to the familiar blonde ponytail as it drifts by. Quinn shrugs, the closest she has come to a polite greeting yet, and very nearly floats towards the prep table.

Rachel sighs.

Routines are her thing, and always have been; Rachel is certainly the first to admit it. A healthy routine paves the way to a happy, goal-oriented life. But some routines are entirely accidental—and, moreover, aggravating—and in the case of the Cheerios…

She just doesn’t think it’s asking _so much_ to crave a little amiable conversation now and then.

But, unfortunately, this is not some fairy tale in which the plucky heroine gets her dues on a smile and a wink. This is Lima, Ohio, land of the Sorely Underappreciated Talent, and no matter how hard she tries, she never seems to curry favor with those three girls. Not in school, where she could easily tutor them in any desired subject (or, well, tutor Brittany; the other two are honor students, classic to a T). Not in Glee, where she could show them how to fulfill the breadth of their nowhere-near-impeccable-but-still-above-average potential. And definitely not at work.

Where she carries trays and serves drinks like a professional.

And never sneaks off to gossip behind the host’s garage.

And certainly _never_ gets caught pressed up against a wall with her hand down Brittany’s slightly-wrinkled black dress pants.

Honestly, she wonders sometimes how those girls ever get _anything_ done.

Things have admittedly changed a bit since high school began. Quinn has had an honest-to-God baby, and though she never talks about it, Rachel is positive the effects are lasting. Quinn’s walls are decidedly fortress-like, but sooner or later, they will have to come down. And when they do, Rachel is confident she will catch another glimpse—or more—of the broken-hearted girl who refused a blatant shot at her nose.

As for Santana and Brittany…

She’s never fully understood what goes on between them, but ever since the rather chaotic breakdown of Brittany and Artie’s utterly-illogical relationship, they’ve been—

She suspects the term “lesbi-friends” would make Brittany giggle in her face and Santana attempt to chase her up a tree, respectively. She doubts either would be worth the momentary amusement.

They aren’t bad girls, from what she can tell (although they certainly have the capacity to drive her to distraction with their unnecessarily-rude commentary and grand eyerolls), and she knows they could all get along—if only they would give her the chance.

Unfortunately, they’ve reached July—the fourth, as point of fact—and not one of those girls has done more than sneer or stubbornly ignore her company. (Brittany’s smiles don’t count, mostly because that girl’s head is so far in the clouds, she’s been known to bestow that very same grin upon squirrels and errant tablecloths.)

The simple fact is, Rachel is beginning to lose her patience. She loves her job, right down to serving finger sandwiches to the highest preening socialites Ohio has to offer, and she simply will not allow a trio of ungrateful young women to ruin it for her.

The service today is simple and to-the-point: food, drinks, and no trouble in between. Rachel has never had much of a problem with that last point, but her classmates are rather less prone to following instructions, and sometimes—

Well, if she stops from time to time to snap at Quinn for her illegal cell phone use or at Brittany for being so terribly handsy, it’s only because she actually _cares_. A good worker is efficient and focused, and those Cheerios tend to be neither. It isn’t fair that, when Rachel calls them out on it, she tends to find herself the subject of unnecessary scolding.

Unbidden, a memory rises: standing toe to toe with Quinn in the middle of a Sweet Sixteen party, both of them screaming their heads off. Rachel winces. They _may_ have made the birthday girl cry and hurl an unopened gift box at their heads on that particular occasion.

So, sometimes, she does fail to make the best available choices. What new member of the employee world can’t say something to that effect? Now she knows better.

She refuses, under any circumstances, to allow those girls to clamber ruthlessly under her skin today. Especially given that the host of this particular Independence Day function is none other than one Judy Fabray, who is equal parts chipper and tipsier than one should be at 4 in the afternoon.

They prepare the tables in relative silence—or, more accurately, _Rachel_ remains painfully tight-lipped, while the Cheerios chatter amongst themselves. She can’t be too angry at Brittany, whose childlike vitality is too adorable to look down upon as she twirls from the finger foods to the desserts, setting cups out in sporadic designs that are probably meant to resemble some animal or another. Santana, on the other hand, is doing half that amount of work; for every tray she arranges, another nail gets filed with absurd carelessness. At least Quinn makes up for them both, correcting everything Brittany sets too haphazardly and prodding Santana in the ribs when she spends too much time in one place.

Quinn Fabray is useless as far as company is concerned, but Rachel has to admit the girl does her job well. She does _everything_ well, it seems, except perhaps celibacy—but two years and plenty of Glee-related nods and awkward smiles mean Rachel isn’t inclined to bring that particular indiscretion up anytime soon.

The tables look lovely when they’ve finished, star-spangled tablecloths coated with just the right amount of colored confetti. That, coupled with the streamers and banners spread from various trees, have done an astounding job: there isn’t enough gold, but all the same, the Fabray yard has been transformed from boring suburban scene to glorious land of the free. Rachel can’t resist a grin.

“What do you think?” she asks Quinn, forgetting for a moment that there is an ugly history of impolite transgender slang still hanging between them. One eyebrow arches.

“About what?”

It isn’t the wisest course of action, but Rachel tends to find it difficult to stop once she’s started. “Your yard. Isn’t it beautiful?”

Quinn gives another of her patented apathetic shrugs. “I guess.”

“Your mother will be so pleased, don’t you think?” Rachel presses, head jerking towards the older Fabray as she mills about making small talk. Quinn’s mouth tightens.

“I guess.”

It’s a pointless venture, trying to pressure the head cheerleader into pleasant conversation, but no matter how many times Rachel swears to herself that she’s done trying, her mouth goes off and makes another valiant attempt. “It’s sort of endearing, isn’t it, how she hired the catering service you happen to work for? Did she do that on purpose? It certainly bespeaks a sort of maternal pride, entrusting her party to her own daughter. I for one—“

“Talk _way_ too much about things no one cares about,” Santana interjects smoothly, catching Quinn by the elbow and digging her black-polished nails in. “C’mon, Q. Gots to make the rounds.”

And once again, the three of them are off without her, heads bent together and whispering like they’re in possession of state secrets. Rachel’s heart sinks.

It’s stupid, she reminds herself, to think they’ll ever change, and it’s even stupider to let that bring her down. Friendship is a two-way street, and regardless of how much effort she puts into the situation, Quinn Fabray is utterly disinclined to give back.

(Santana is even more horrific where friendly behavior is concerned, but Rachel finds herself less frustrated and more reassured by this fact. Santana appears to look upon friendship just as distressingly as a prison inmate might view the buddy system.)

Shaking her head unhappily, she takes a moment to collect herself, smoothing down the front of her immaculate black button-down with its complementing crimson tie. It’s an astonishingly professional uniform for a summer catering service, and although the conscientious adherence to dress code often leaves each employee sweltering, Rachel doesn’t mind. The _look_ is what counts, and she _looks_ like someone to be trusted with all party-related matters.

Unfortunately, so do the other girls, and if she doesn’t get a move on carrying trays, they’re bound to suck in the majority of the available tips. It wouldn’t be the first time, not with the cheerleaders’ uncanny ability to be as sunny and charming with the average Lima wallet as they are cold and cruel to Rachel herself.

Things go more or less well for the next hour. Sweat beading on her brow, Rachel maintains her brightest, most award-winning smile as she walks around displaying heaping trays of miniature hamburgers and other products she would never consider putting near her mouth. The tips she receives are not especially grand, but money is money, and she makes sure to be gracious no matter the amount.

Things are going so well, in fact (her smile feels appropriately warm, her pocket slowly weighing down with singles, and that trickle of sweat that usually runs down her spine by this point still has yet to make an appearance), that she is almost embarrassed about not seeing Santana Lopez coming.

Whether or not the move is intentional, she will never know—Santana isn’t the sort of girl you can _ask_ these sorts of things, and anyway, it doesn’t matter. The motivation behind the limber body bumping forcefully into her back is meaningless in comparison to the chain of events it causes, beginning with Rachel stumbling gracelessly over a pine-cone and resulting in—

A very angry, very food-encrusted Quinn Fabray.

If there is a worse way to get the amiable attention of a girl who already despises her, Rachel can’t think of it.

“Quinn,” she stammers, “I didn’t—that was an acci—“

Before she can brush well-meaning fingertips against the other girl’s shirt, Quinn is slapping her hands away. “Beat it, Berry.”

“I tripped,” Rachel insists weakly. “I’ve got another shirt in my bag, I could lend it to you.”

“You’re a mouse, Man-Hands,” Quinn fires back, dropping her tray on the grass and wiping ineffectually at the lettuce, mustard, and crumbs coating her front. “What makes you think it would _fit_?”

Rachel winces at the cruel nickname, the likes of which she hasn’t heard in longer than she'd realized. As intolerable as Quinn can be, she at least seemed to have been growing out of the politically-incorrect insults.

The more she thinks about it, watching her so-called nemesis try to ignore her mother’s guests while failing to clean herself off, the more annoyed Rachel grows. She hasn’t done anything wrong—not on purpose (well, not since the Year of Many Mistakes, when, really, Quinn was _just_ as much to blame). She has only made a series of minor blunders, none of which Quinn seems willing to set aside, not even for the sake of that brief, glowing period where friendship seemed to float on the horizon.

Even now, Quinn is glaring at her like Rachel actually _threw_ her platter with malicious intent, which makes no sense whatsoever. And with Santana grinning while Brittany flits about trying to scoop burgers back into place, Rachel is beginning to feel like this was all one big set-up to make their whole service look ridiculous.

“Quinn,” she begins again, voice stronger this time. “Don’t be absurd. Come with me, we’ll get you cleaned up and back to work in no time.”

She gathers a handful of one ruined sleeve and tugs. Quinn jerks free, scowling.

“Don’t _touch_ me. God, don’t you have something better to do, like flail around after my leftovers?”

If Rachel’s face gets any warmer, she’s positive she’ll burst into radiant flames. “I don’t believe I understand what you’re referring to—“

“Don’t play dumb,” Quinn snaps. Kneeling at her feet, Brittany looks up, eyes wide.

“They’re fighting,” she stage-whispers to Santana, who looks more or less like Christmas has snuck up and bestowed upon her a new car. Rachel ignores them both.

“My relationship with Finn has nothing to do with you,” she sputters as eloquently as she can under the circumstances. “Nothing at all. And I’m insulted that you seem to think, after all this time, that you have any claim over him whatsoever.”

“Claim?” Quinn snorts. “What makes you think I _want_ him? Finn is dumber than a rock, and, in case you haven’t noticed, he’s turned into kind of a jerk lately.”

“And whose fault is that?” It’s a low blow, beyond her usual register and nowhere near appropriate for work, but Rachel has had enough. She hasn’t done a thing to cause Quinn to lunge down her throat with all the voracious rage of a tiger in heat, and frankly, she is sick to death of sitting back and accepting the cheerleader’s mindless abuse. On the clock or not, this ends now.

“You,” Rachel churns out through gritted teeth, doing her very best to contain her elevating temper when Quinn ‘s mouth falls open, “do not have the first idea about Finn and I. And you have no right to talk about him in the first place, after the hell you put him through.”

“I’ve got more of a right than you do,” Quinn retorts, cheeks going pink. “At least _we_ made sense.”

“You never made him happy,” Rachel replies primly. “Finn and I understand one another. You’re just jealous that _we’re_ the golden couple now, and you aren’t.”

“And which part of that _golden_ relationship makes you so very perky?” Quinn demands, hands on her hips. “The part where Finn treats you with less respect than he’d offer a rabid Pomeranian, the bit where you slobber after him with no regard as to who he is under all the football-and-popularity melodrama, or the consideration that you two are absolutely _horrible_ to each other?”

“You’re one to talk!” Rachel bellows back. “You and Sam, you and Puck—which is it this week? I have trouble keeping your little status-inducing boy toys straight!”

“It’s a wonder you keep _anything_ straight, judging by that glitter-festooned house you grew up in,” Quinn sneers. Rachel’s ears go hot.

“What my house is or is not _festooned_ with is none of your business, Quinn Fabray!”

“Whatever,” Quinn replies, rolling her eyes, and that is _it_. Rachel normally prides herself on holding a civil tongue when it comes to bullies, but this has gone on long enough to wear out even the most saintly of folk.

She’s charging before she knows it, head down, arms extended. She could take Quinn out, she thinks furiously, could tackle her and send the girl sailing into the nearest picnic table. It would be so satisfying—

—if not for the fact that Santana has leapt into the fray before it begins, catching Rachel around the waist and sending them both tumbling down. Any other girl would be doing her best friend a favor with such an action; Rachel knows for a fact Santana just loves having an opportunity to make her look weak and foolish.

She thrashes, catching Santana under the jaw with a poorly-executed blow that snaps the stronger girl’s head back. The arms around her go slack; Rachel scrambles to her feet, dead-set on finishing the job as intended. Quinn smirks.

“Oh, now you’re going to come at me? This is rich.”

“Rachel!” Brittany adds, eyes plaintive. “Don’t! Fighting never helps anything!”

“B,” Santana grumbles from her place on the ground, “don’t be all _nice_ to her. She _hit_ me.”

“You would’ve hit me first,” Rachel defends, the rage slowly draining away. “And you’re scarier than I am.”

“Damn straight,” Santana mutters, reaching up and clasping Brittany’s helping hand. Rachel sighs, realizing all of a sudden how absurd this whole thing has become in the span of mere minutes. Leave it to these girls to destroy her carefully-rendered professional image with a few well-placed jabs.

“I apologize for striking you, Santana,” she says, rubbing at the grass stain slowly setting into her pants. “That was a rash decision.”

“And dumb as shit,” Santana agrees, eyeing her with faint amusement. “Funny, though. That you thought you could take me.”

“I didn’t _want_ to take you,” Rachel argues heatedly. “I wanted to take _her_.”

She jerks her head at Quinn, who goes very red all of a sudden. Playing back her own words, Rachel is flooded with embarrassment.

“I, erm. That is. I meant—“

“Wanted to take her, huh?” Santana jibes, grinning in a very unfamiliar fashion. Rachel suspects the other girl might actually be _teasing_ her, a notion backed up by Brittany’s waving hands.

“Ooh! Take her out? Like on a date?”

“No,” Rachel protests, “I never said—“

“Q, I think Smurfette’s got a little thing for you,” Santana says cheerfully, elbowing her captain. Quinn, instead of making a revolted face, only blushes harder.

“Shut up.”

“Quinn, I assure you, my intentions are not remotely impure in any fashion,” Rachel cuts in desperately. “I simply—that is, I just want—“

“To bone her hard and long?” Santana suggests blithely, laughing when Quinn turns to glare daggers at her. Brittany looks positively merry at the idea.

“That’s much more fun than going on dates.”

Distracted for a moment, Santana fires her a slightly wounded look. “Hey. I’ll have you know I put a lot of effort into those dates.”

“Yes, baby,” Brittany replies placidly, kissing her on the nose. “I didn’t mean _your_ dates. _Your_ dates are awesome.”

“No one is going on dates!” Rachel cries, feeling very confused now. Two minutes ago, she wanted nothing more than to spill Quinn’s blood all over the Fabray lawn; now, the other girl is staring determinedly at anything but her face, and Rachel mostly just wants to understand why.

“Yeah, well. Whose fault is that?” Santana stares pointedly at the side of her friend’s head, eyebrows raised. Quinn continues to search for answers to the meaning of life in the cloudless summer sky.

“I have to confess, I have no idea what’s happening right now,” Rachel insists. “Quinn. Why aren’t you yelling anymore?”

“Not mad anymore,” Quinn mumbles, shrugging half-heartedly. Rachel can only stare.

“Am I to believe the solution to years of torment was a singular attempt to clock you in your backyard?”

“Something like that,” Santana sneers, though the familiar expression lacks its usual malice. Quinn rocks on her heels, hands finding her pockets.

“And you’re really not upset about your shirt?” Rachel presses suspiciously, choosing, as has so often proven wise, to ignore Santana. “At all?”

“Nope,” Quinn says, head still tilted back. Santana rolls her eyes.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Q—“

“Quinnie!” a too-bright voice interrupts, heralding the arrival of Judy Fabray. It appears that all the vodka in the Midwest is not enough to shield a fight between the help and one’s own daughter forever, although Mrs. Fabray looks less incensed than Rachel would expect from a typical parent.

Quinn looks as though this is exactly the last thing she needs right now. “Hi, Mom.”

“Your clothes!” Judy observes loudly. “What on earth has been going on here?”

“Just a tiny scuffle, Mrs. Fabray,” Santana informs her with a terrifyingly-sweet smile. “Quinn has been having a little trouble _expressing_ herself lately—“

“Everything’s fine, Mom,” Quinn insists, biting her lip. “You can go back to the party now. Really.”

It’s a command Judy Fabray appears to have no desire to follow. Her eyes have found Rachel, her face lighting up inexplicably.

“Well, now! Here’s that pretty girl from your room!”

“I beg your pardon?” Rachel asks uneasily, gaze darting from the too-wide smile bearing down on her to Quinn’s mortified expression.

“Oh, she’s lovely,” Quinn’s mother continues happily, clapping her hands together. “Have you spoken to her yet about the things in your diary?”

“Mom!” Quinn snaps. “I think you have somewhere to be. Now.”

“Your mom reads your diary?” Santana asks with a snort. Brittany nods knowingly.

“Just like my cat. We need better locks.”

Rachel manages to tune all of them out, her eyes fixed on Quinn’s horrified face. Diary? What on earth could Quinn have to say about her in a diary? Unless, of course, she was constructing lists of horrible things to say at school the next week or something, but what about that would make Mrs. Fabray think Rachel needs to know about—

_Ohhh._

Realization dawns with all the subtlety of ice water. Her cheeks light with heat until she’s certain she’s at least as red as the girl whose mother just outed her.

“Quinn Fabray,” she says slowly. “Do you _like_ me?”

Hazel eyes refuse to meet her own, even as a tousled blonde head twitches from left to right. Rachel’s jaw flops open unattractively.

“ _Quinn Fabray._ You never told me!”

That seems to get Quinn’s attention. “Told you?” she repeats dumbly. “I didn’t want to believe it, much less admit it!"

“That,” Rachel sputters, “is the most ridiculous—you mean to tell me, after all these years, that you have been behaving like a petty schoolboy with an absurd _crush_? All the attacks upon my character, all the frivolous denouncements of my talent, every pornographic bathroom stall rendering—oh. Well, I suppose _that_ makes much more sense now…”

Quinn shakes her head. “You’re straight, Rachel, and so am I. Or. I’m supposed to be. My father would never—“

“Your father’s point of view is irrelevant!” Judy cuts in sloppily. “The adulterous son of a whore.”

“Mom!” Quinn gasps, scandalized. “That’s Gram-Gram you’re talking about!”

“Even so.” The older Fabray sniffs delicately. “She hasn’t always been a peach to me, darling, it’s time you realized things like that.”

“Um, I hate to be a bother,” Rachel says hesitantly, raising a hand halfway into the air. “But I’m still rather stuck on the ‘Quinn being gay’ part of the conversation.”

“I’m _not_ gay,” Quinn snaps, eyes blazing. Santana nudges her shoulder with a long-suffering sigh.

“Babe, you are _so_ gay.”

The blonde’s shoulders droop, a hand rubbing her forehead. Rachel has never felt so much sympathy for her, not even where Beth was concerned.

“You should have told me,” she says gently. “I may not be a lesbian, strictly speaking, but I have plenty of experience—“

“With girls?” Santana cuts in, saucily waggling her eyebrows. Brittany giggles.

“With _information_ ,” Rachel corrects her witheringly. “Pamphlets, FAQs, cinema and novels. I could have helped, Quinn, every step of the way.” She pauses, scuffing her shoe shyly against the grass. “I still could. If you like.”

The eyebrows that have haunted more than a few nightmares arch inquisitively. “You’re saying you’re willing to…”

“Be friends,” Rachel fills in firmly, nodding. When Quinn’s whole body seems to deflate at the word, she holds up a hand. “You owe me that much, Quinn. I’ve spent years under your reign of repressed terror. You can’t possibly expect me to dump my boyfriend of two years and leap into your arms immediately.”

Judging by the forlorn expression on Quinn’s face, she suspects this was _exactly_ what the other girl expected. All the same, Quinn smiles faintly.

“I still think you’re terrible for each other. And _to_ each other. Honestly, you’re nearly abusive.”

“Yes, because you’re one to talk,” Rachel drawls, amused when Quinn actually laughs.

“I don’t suppose an apology and a cookie will make up for it?”

“You have to start somewhere,” Rachel informs her wisely, smiling. Santana instantly makes an exaggerated pumping gesture with both arms that Rachel can only describe as “the Shawshank.”

“ _Finally_ ,” she breathes. “Jesus, I was sick of this stupid cat and mouse bullshit every day. Can we maybe try to _enjoy_ our summer after this?”

“You enjoy working with me?” Rachel asks, a bit hopefully. Dark eyes narrow.

“Not a chance, Streisand. Fabray’s gay for your face. I have greener pastures to frolic upon.”

“I’m not green,” Brittany observes, stretching out her arms to prove it. When Rachel catches her eye, she winks. “But that girl from that musical is. Baby, could I be her for Halloween?”

“Elphaba,” Rachel supplies helpfully. Santana looks uncomfortable.

“Does that mean I’d have to be the other one? With the, uh, flouncing?”

“Glinda,” Rachel adds, grinning. The uncomfortable expression slides into a murderous one when Brittany’s head jolts up and down in assent.

“Fan-friggin’-tastic.”

Quinn looks absurdly cheerful for someone whose advances were recently put off. Rachel figures it’s a step in the coming out process, which, according to her fathers, feels something like turning one’s face towards the sun for the first time in years. She reaches over to nudge her gently.

“You really should have told me.”

“You’re never going to let me live it down, are you?” Quinn asks, soft and a little worried. Rachel shrugs.

“You also owe me the opportunity for a little teasing, I think.”

Quinn nods thoughtfully, brushing again at her ruined shirt. “I look like an idiot, don’t I?”

“A very pretty idiot,” Rachel informs her, smiling cheekily when Quinn goes red again. “Although you should probably change before the comment cards start going around. I would hate to see you fired after your own mother’s event for poor hygiene.”

“Might be pretty embarrassing,” Quinn agrees, thumbing open the bottom button and tilting her body towards the house. She hesitates, one foot in the air. “Hey, Rachel?”

“Mm?” Rachel replies, bending to retrieve her empty tray from where she’d thrown it. Quinn smiles awkwardly.

“No funny business or anything, but would you like to watch the fireworks with me later on? Y’know, after we’ve cleaned up and stuff?”

Rachel flashes the happiest smile she has ever worn at work. “I’d love to. Under one condition.”

Quinn raises an eyebrow, waiting. Rachel twitches her head towards the tree Santana and Brittany have just vanished behind.

“You help me keep an eye on _them_ for the rest of the summer.”

Quinn grins. “Deal.”

As she watches what may well be her very first _real_ friend stride away, Rachel is more certain than ever that the Lima Luxury Catering Service is the best job on earth—after the glow and glamour of Broadway, that is.

People really should appreciate summer jobs better.


End file.
